


this wind keeps me sailing home

by valery_snowflakes



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Demisexuality, F/M, Godparents Aziraphale and Crowley (Good Omens), Good Omens Secret Santa 2019 - Other Countries, M/M, Nonbinary Character, a/c but like you have to squint, also a lot of queer pals, no beta we die like men, occult and ethereal beings adopting humans because they can, trigger warning for body dysphoria, trigger warning for mentions of rape, trigger warning for slight homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21923650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valery_snowflakes/pseuds/valery_snowflakes
Summary: And then they both fall in love.With themselves, with each other, with the world, with their present (and their past and their future).
Relationships: Aziraphale & Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Original Female Character(s), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) & Original Male Character(s), Nanny Ashtoreth & Warlock Dowling
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	this wind keeps me sailing home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HiHereAmI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiHereAmI/gifts).



> Hiya everyone! This one is a Secret Santa gift for [Ami](https://twitter.com/hihereami) from the _Good Omens Secret Santa 2019 — Other Countries!_ Twitter group chat! I've gotta say, working on this one was such fun and I absolutely loved every second of it!!  
> I used some ideas from both the form and your messages on the chat, Ami, so I dearly hope you enjoy this one! It was such a pleasure to be able to merge your ideas with mine, and I sincerely hope you like it!!
> 
> Work title comes from Ben Hartley — Little Pieces of You  
> The poem used all thought the fic is Faith by Arthur Caswell Parker.

**_there is a faith that weakly dies_ **

Aziraphale finds her in Jerusalem, a day after Jesus’ crucifixion. Crawley —no, that’s not right, _Crowley_ — had fled the city hours prior, claiming she couldn’t stand another minute of walking down streets coated with her friend’s blood, so the angel had miracled her a ride and sent her on her way, a hidden prayer of good luck tightly tucked between the wooden planks of the self-driven carriage that would look like it was being pulled by horses to the human eye.

The girl didn’t stand out much in the crowd, if the angel was being honest. Bronze skin covered by a thick curtain of chocolate hair could be seen just about anywhere this days, especially in the trading market, where women would be off at the early hours of the day to fill their hand-woven baskets and make it home before sundown so they could feed their loving families.

No, what made her stand out wasn’t her appearance, or any other particular sort of traits. What made her stand out to Aziraphale was the cunning look in her brown eyes, the way her skilled hands moved in swift movements and snatched things from stall to stall without anyone seeming to notice.

The Principality could do nothing but watch her cautiously, a frown on his face as the woman shoplifted [1] an assortment of fruits and vegetables, along with a loaf of bread and a bag of seeds from various stalls without the owners taking notice of their missing goods.

[1] Word that wouldn’t be invented for another couple centuries, but an ethereal being such as himself didn’t mind too much about those sort of technicalities.

Once her basket was semi-filled and the girl seemed satisfied at what she’d managed to snag, she reached in between the edibles and pulled out a scarf to cover her face with, wrapping the worn-down cloth around her head before meekly starting to make her way out of the market.

Aziraphale watched her leave, tiny feet hurrying down along the beaten path that remained tainted with tiny bloodstains of the son of the Almighty and the other two criminals who walked alongside him to their execution, swallowing around the knot in his throat and miracling some extra money inside the pouches of those sellers the girl had stolen from before making his way back towards the inn he’d been staying in.

He saw the girl again three days later, right on the first dusk after Jesus had come waltzing back into the world of the living.

She looked dirtier than the first time and the long dress she wore had some tears right at the bottom of her sleeves and ankles, but otherwise she seemed nonchalant as she walked around the market like she owned the place.

Just like the first time he’d seen her, strutting around with her confidence and cunning eyes, the petite girl took to picking up fruits and vegetables here and there from unsuspecting sellers in a display of stealth that was simply mesmerizing for a human such as her.

This time around, however, just as she was about to leave what with that scarf wrapped around her head and basket filled halfway with stolen goods, Aziraphale dared to stop her.

“Dear girl,” he said with a stern tone, stepping right in front of her and frowning. “What on Earth are you doing?”

The young woman looked stricken aback, hazel brown eyes open wide and fitting from one side to the other in search of an escape gate. Aziraphale frowned more and cleared his throat, the girl’s attention snapping back towards him.

“I’m…” she croaked out, hands tightening around her basket with such force that her knuckles turned white. A few passers-by shoot them odd looks before turning their heads down and walking forward. “I…”

“This is no way to treat goods of those hard-working sellers!” the angel tutted, shaking his head in disappointment. Aziraphale reached into his pocket and miracled out a pouch of golden coins, dropping it on the girl’s basket. “Here, have this. Now, go and pay for what you’ve stolen.”

At that, the girl bleached, staring at the pouch inside her basket as though somehow it’d burn her.

“I’m not… I don’t need,” her chocolate brown eyes turned as big as the moon. “I’m not of age to get married yet!” She blurted out, frantic. “I don’t even know how to cook, I can’t have babies!”

Aziraphale just tilted his head, eyebrows scrunching up in confusion.

“I don’t see why that should matter to me,” he told her, strict. Then, he gestured towards the pouch of coins in her basket. “Now go and repay your debt, dear girl. I’ll wait here until you’re done and then walk you home.”

“No! Not home!” The girl screamed, bowing her head down. “Not where my younger sisters spend their days!” She swallowed, tears trailing down her cheeks. “I’ll go to your house, good sir, but please do let me keep my humble family out of this.”

“Fai enough, then,” the angel didn’t necessarily want the girl walking to the inn with him, but he figured once there he could give her an extra supply of food and cloth he certainly didn’t need and she obviously lacked without it seeming like he pulled it out of nowhere that way. “Now, on with it.”

She gulped, nodding to herself once, twice, and even a third time before carefully depositing the basket at Aziraphale’s feet and clutching the money pouch close to her chest, walking from stand to stand and tossing coins in the hands of bewildered sellers.

Once done with her task, she returned to where Aziraphale waited, picking up her basket and thrusting the semi-empty pouch towards the ethereal being without making eye contact.

“Oh, keep it, dear girl,” the angel offered, pushing her open palm back to her.

“I…” the girl looked up at that, frowned at the pouch and tossed it back into her basket, wrapping the scarf tighter around her head. “Thank you, good sir.”

“It’s my pleasure, dear girl,” Aziraphale beamed, casting a quick miracle to ensure the pouch would never empty of coins for as long as the girl lived. “And please do call me Phale, no need for formalities.”

The girl nodded, looking back down at her basket. “Achsah[2],” she offered, weakly.

[2]Mentioned in Joshua 15:16, the name Achsah means “Bursting the veil”, although it’s also been associated with “The woman who always wanted more.”

“Fair enough, Achsah,” the angel turned towards the beaten track, gesturing vaguely at it with one hand. “Should we get moving?”

“We should,” Achsah agreed, a curl of dark hair falling off her scarf and in front of her eyes. “I must be home before sundown, in order to make food for my family.”

“Won’t take too much of your time, then,” Aziraphale smiles gently, offering his arm for the girl to take. “I promise to be quick.”

Hesitantly, Achsah turns to interlock her arm with the angel’s, carefully balancing her basket on the other hand. Dread pools at the bottom of her stomach but she forces herself to push past it and keep walking forwards, knowing that if she ends up turning this stranger’s kindness down she probably will end up dead in a ditch before sundown. Trading a few sexual favours for food (although uncalled for) isn’t the worst that could happen to her. And maybe, if she’s really lucky, this white-haired man will be pleased with a quick hand or blowjob, and there will be no need to engage in other tasks.

The man leads her towards an inn located far-off from the town, and Achsah gulps at that. It seems he was one of the many that poured in from all the neighbouring villages to watch that Jesus man get hung on the cross. Now that rumour has it he’s back, however, the man must be pretty pissed and looking to let out some frustration with the first woman who happens to cross his path.

Pushing deep down her fears and tears alike, Achsah walks with home all the way to the main gate of the inn and then across several pebble stone paths until they reach a somewhat-secluded room, where the man stops and pushes forward the door, it’s old planks creaking under the force.

“After you,” he gestures, and Achsah nods, trembling as she steps inside the room and drops her basket by the door. Her sandals clank loudly against the wooden floor, and she stares around the tiny bedroom with fear, noting how clean the place is and how neatly the bed is made.

The man steps in behind her, softly closing the door and walking around the little room, shedding his overlays of clothing in a chair by the door before bending down next to the bed and rummaging through a trunk full of stuff, chattering over his shoulder all the while.

“Oh please, dear girl, make yourself comfortable,” he says, pulling out pieces of fabric and laying them down on the bed. “I will take just a second.”

Achsah nods, not trusting her voice not to break. Silently, she removes the scarf around her head and drops it on her basket, getting rid of her sandals and placing them on top of the scarf as to not get the food dirty with mud. Once she’s done with that, and seeing as the man is still sorting through his junk looking for God-knows-what, she begins to peel off her layers of clothing, folding them neatly atop of her sandals.

“Oh, there it is!” The man exclaims happily, after finally finding whatever he so desperately needed. He rises from the floor and dusts the grime off his robe, clutching in between his hands a small package wrapped with cloth. Upon seeing Achsah down most of her clothing, however, he tilts his head. “What are you doing? Are you hot, my dear girl? Here, let me see if I can find—"

“No clothes is fine,” Achsah interrupts, choking back a sob. Not only does she not want the only robe she owns to dirty, but she also would rather keep his scent off her skin as much as possible. “But please, Phale, be quick. I need to be back with my family soon.”

The sun had begun to set as they made their trek from the overly-populated market to this hidden inn at the outskirts of the city, which means that once this is over Achsah will have no time to weep her loss and instead have to make a run to it, hoping to every deity out there she manages to make it home before her older brother gets home after an exhausting day at work.

Angry, tired and starved are never a good prospect when it comes to Sadrac. Achsah knows that all too well.

“Yes, dear girl, that I know. But why have you gotten rid of your clothe—? _Oh_ , I see,” a deep sadness fills the man’s clear blue eyes as realization dawns on him. “No, Achsah, my dear. You’ve got it all wrong.”

The girl blinks past the tears in her eyes, hesitantly reaching over to her basket to pull out her scarf and muffle her cries in.

“Do I?”

“Yes, dear girl,” the man’s voice breaks over the word ‘girl’, and he hastily snags all the fabric from the bed and offers it to Achsah, sadness imprinted all over his features. “Now, please do take this and put your clothes back on. It’s breaking my heart to see you like this.”

Nodding past her tears, Achsah hurries to throw on her clothes and place the pile of fabric the man has given her on her basket, murmuring a prayer of gratitude before putting her sandals back on and running as fast as her little legs will let her.

She makes it home with barely enough time to cook dinner before Sadrac gets home, and as her brother dines in the main room of the house, Achsah meekly fills out bowls of soup to bring to her younger sisters on the other room, sitting down with them as they eat and rummaging through the basket.

Most of the fabric that the man gave her is new, only slightly dirtied by her sprint from his inn room to her house. It’s long enough that it should serve to put together a couple of robes and then some.

Inside the package that he pulled out from his trunk is an empty note of paper, wrapped tightly around enough layers of fabric to make a couple of scarves. It’s empty, clear from both sides and tiny enough to fit in her palm. Still, it feels holy, somehow, so Achsah hides it in one of the creases of her dress and sets to folding up the fabric for later use, not noticing how the ripped seams of her sleeves and ankles sow themselves back together.

Once her sisters finish their meals, Achsah helps them wipe their chubby hands and mouths on clean water and then sets them down to sleep, stacking the three empty soup bowls one on top of the other before returning to the kitchen. As she passes Sadrac, she realizes he’s fell asleep with the food bowl dangling precariously off his lap, so she makes sure to set that aside and wrap him with a nearby blanket before scrubbing the bowls clean and using one to pour herself some food.

The soup has cooled down by now, but the vegetables taste as good as ripe and she wolfs down the entire thing in less than a minute, feeling more full than she’s ever felt, despite that she’s been eating the exact same dish for dinner for years now.

When Achsah falls asleep, she dreams of the thing she likes best. And when she wakes in the morning, she grabs the pouch of coins, her basket and sets off to the market once Sadrac has gone to work, skirting around the different stalls and vendors without having to hide herself behind other women anymore.

She doesn’t think about the white-haired man sleeping on a faraway inn again.

**_when overcast by clouds of doubt,_ **

Crowley flees Jerusalem and goes to Europe as soon as the tomb in which they’ve sealed her good friend Jesus in closes. She bids Aziraphale goodbye, hops in on a carriage the angel had miracled for her and doesn’t get off until she’s reached civilization.

The humans that greet her when she steps out of the wooden carriage are completely unlike the ones she would’ve found at Jerusalem, their skins lighter and eyes harsher. They don’t pay her much attention, too busy moving rocks from one place to another to create a sun-powered clock that will be known to later generations as Stonehenge.

Walking amidst the humans who are only now learning the fine arts of pottery and smelting bronze, chasing after the so-called witches that know how to read the stars and utilize the leaves around them with their spears and their swords, Crowley decides that this society is far too inadequate for her and so she snags a dagger from one of the metal forgers, cuts her hair until it’s falls just behind her— no, _his_ ears and then hops into the carriage once again and doesn’t stop until he’s reached a whole new part of the world.

The Mayans are nice and caring and oh, so organized. They look at Crowley with a silent sort of awe, like they’re aware he’s not like them but they also can’t place a finger on who he’s like, so they sort of just let it slide.[3]

[3] Mayans were polytheists as well as firm believers that their gods would sometimes walk amongst them, so the occult energy radiating from Crowley certainly made them do a double take in regard to whether they should venerate him or not.

Crowley walks along this people and feels a sense of security that he knows won’t last long. But God-Hell- _Someone_ is it worth it.

He spends long nights stargazing on top of pyramids with them, glad to find out they’re not like those freaks in Europe and can actually understand reading the sky —the planets and constellations he crafted back when _Raphael_ was a name he could still pronounce— is not witchcraft but a fine art only those who study can understand.

Crowley mingles with the common folk and royalty alike, spends his nights clad in ceremonial gowns and commoner clothes alike. He makes small talk with those living at the outskirts of the city and with those who spend their days hauled up in front of maps and blueprints.

And, on top of all, he meets a girl. She has long black hair that reaches her waist and a skin brown as chocolate fudge. Her dark eyes shine brighter underneath the moonlight and she works as an assistant with the astronomers of the Halach Uinic[4], long hair always tied behind her head in a bun.

[4] Halach Uinic was the Mayan title associated with the king.

Her name is Itzayana[5], she wears golden cuffs around her wrists and a necklace of feathers on top of her dress. She talks with her hands way too much and spends entire nights just gazing up at the stars with an unabashed adoration. Her clothes and appearance are always a little bit off in regards to how other women at the pyramid dress, but she seems nonchalant as she walks past them with her skirt torn and her arms filled with rolled up parchments.

[5] Itzayana is a Mayan-originated name which means “God’s gift.”

Crowley loves her right off the bat.

They spend their nights together with the wise astronomers, handling maps and tracing constellations on rustic journals. Itzayana talks like she’s running out of time, and Crowley always attentively listens.

She babbles on about gods like Itzamná, Ix Chel, Ahau Kin[6] and so on, grinning like a madman and waving her hands all over the place. Then, at one point, Crowley starts talking too, and soon enough he’s told her all about the wonders of the world. He’s told her about the big great garden of Eden and about Noah’s Arc.

[6] The Mayans had many deities and gods they prayed to, and to name a few we could talk about Itzamná who was the Sky god, Ix Chel who was the Moon goddess and Ahau Kin, the Sun god.

Crowley knows Itzayana doesn’t believe him one bit, doesn’t trust his stories of the Almighty and Lucifer. But that’s okay, she believes he is a great storyteller and so he lets her, not wanting to mess with her faith. They talk all though the nights and up until the early hours of day, where they both part ways to get some rest and start the cycle all over again as soon as the sun sets.

It’s on one of those special nights, where the elder astronomers have all left them to supervise the stars by themselves and document any anomalies, that Crowley finds himself opening up about his good friend Jesus for the first time since he left Jerusalem.

“He is the one wound I’m never going to be able to suture,” Crowley says, tucking a stray lock of red hair behind his ear. “If I hated Her for casting me out before, then my loathe of Her was cemented when I watched Her son bleed out onto the gravel with no one around to help him.”

“That is awful,” Itzayana says, running a hand through her hair. It’s clasped tightly at the back of her head, like every other night, and she reaches across the bowl of spiced grasshoppers they’ve been snacking on to rub a comforting hand in circles at Crowley’s back.

“It truly is,” Crowley sobs, clutching his knees tighter to his chest. “I showed him the wonders of the world, I gave him an out. Still, he trusted in Her to make it all better, and She left her own son to die.”

Itzayana stays awfully quiet for a long time, her hand rubbing soothing circles on Crowley’s back. Her breath tingles his ear and she sighs, very softly.

“You aren’t a storyteller, right?” She finally asks, and Crowley goes rigid, which makes her chuckle. “Yeah, figured so.”

She leans back, her hand leaving Crowley’s back and instead picking up some grasshoppers from the bowl that she swiftly throws in her mouth, munching as the gears in her head shift.

“Those Romans sound like actual sons of bitches,” she hums, looking straight ahead. “Jesus seemed fine, though. A little too naïve for his own good, perhaps. Maybe weak of mind?”

“Oh, he was anything but those things,” Crowley wipes some stray tears from his cheek with the back of his hand. “He was the strongest person I’ve ever met. And the kindest, too. Whenever his disciples poked fun at me or Madeleine for being women, he’d just turn around with this stern look in his eyes and go _“Love thy brother_ and _thy sister”_ and that would shut them all up.”

Itzayana stills at that, turning towards Crowley with a strange look in her eyes.

“But,” she whispers, licking her lips. “But, Crowley, you’re… you’re not a woman.”

“Not anymore,” Crowley shrugs. “I cut my hair before coming here, figured a change of identity was in order if I was trying to leave all this behind me.”

“You can do that?” Itzayana blurts, eyes as black as the night sky open so wide they’re bigger than the moon. “You mean I… I can get rid of this awful extra skin and just be me? Leave all this woman bullshit behind and just live like a man?”

She—no, _he_ — gestures at his chest at that, waving his hands in front of his ample bosom. There are tears in his eyes and Crowley feels his heart break.

“You could,” he aims for a smile. “If you were an occult being like me. Humans, however, I’m afraid are a little harder to work with.”

The light in his eyes dims notably at that, but Itzayana doesn’t relent so easily. He puckers his lower lip out, looking at Crowley with such hope it tugs directly at his heartstrings.

“But you can do it for me, right?” He pouts, tears falling from his eyes. “Please, Crowley, you showed a man all the wonders of the world in less than a night. Surely you can help me with this.”

Although sex reassignment surgeries wouldn’t be invented for another couple hundred years, Crowley finds himself nodding at Itzayana’s request. He wipes the sweat off his hands on the folds of his clothes and turns to face him.

“An ethereal being could do this much better,” he begins, hands awkwardly hovering in front of his friend. “They have the power to create things out of thin air. Us demons, however, have it a little trickier. I can only work with what I’ve already got, and the only times I’ve done this it was on myself, so…”

“It’s okay, Crowley,” Itzayana places one of his hands on Crowley’s cheek, bringing the other to his chest. “I trust you.”

The occult being takes in a deep breath before canalizing his energy into that of Itzayana _(but is that even his real name anymore?)_ and carefully threading his essence through the particles, rearranging the atoms and molecules into something more masculine, crafting slowly piece by piece until he’s made every finger thicker and squared all the corners.

By the time he’s finished, the sun is beginning to rise and there’s a thick layer of sweat on top of his brow, but when he opens his eyes all he can see is Itzayana’s blinding smile and the dimming stars reflected in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Itzayana croaks out, a constellation oh tears on his lashes. “Yuum bo'otik[7], Crowley, for giving Itzae[8] a chance to live.”

[7] Yuum bo'otik means "thank you" in Mayan.

[8] Itzae is the Mayan version of the name Itzayana and it, too, means “God’s gift.”

On that note, Itzae hops forwards and envelops Crowley in a bone-crushing hug. His tears soak the collar of the demon’s shirt and he’s pretty sure there’s snot on his chest, but in spite of that Crowley hugs back just as enthusiastically.

The sun starts to rise behind them, and Crowley grins against Itzae’s now-short hair, thinking that they’d must make a pretty picture.

**_that like a blazing wisp of straw_ **

Aziraphale isn’t really expecting Sor Juana to burst through the doors to her studio in such a fit of rage, which is what she’ll blame spilling her wine all over herself on if anyone were to ask.

“My dear girl!” She exclaims, staring at her ruined white dress with a frown. “Whatever happened to you that made you so angry?”

“That fucking bishop did!” Sor Juana exclaims, throwing her hands up in the air. The gown she’d worn to that night’s convent dinner crumples underneath her angry pacing across the floor. “Who the fuck does he think he is, flaming me like that?”

Aziraphael blinks at that, taken aback. “Flamin—what? What in the Almighty’s name are you talking about, my dear girl?”

“Doesn’t matter, Fell, doesn’t matter!” The woman exclaims, walking over to her desk and dropping one of her quills in ink before sitting down abruptly. “Not even this drowsy head from all that wine matters in the moment! All that matters is that men are shit and they have no idea of what they’re talking about!”

Without further ado, Sor Juana reaches into one of her drawers and pulls out one of her worn-down journals, flipping it open to a new page and stabbing her quill into it with such force that Aziraphale has to miracle away the stains of ink that coat the rest of the page before she can continue writing.

Leaving her empty flute of wine abandoned in a nearby table, the angel walks all the way over to where her friend resides, furiously scribbling on the paper like she can’t get the words out fast enough.

“Hombres necios que acusáis a la mujer sin razón,” she begins reading, quirking a brow up in confusion. “Sin ver que sois la occasion de lo mismo que culpáis.”

Aziraphale tilts his head, munching on her lower lip.

“Fuck men,” Sor Juana repeats under her breath, dripping her quill in more ink before turning back to her journal.

“Yeah,” Aziraphale agrees, walking over to the alcohol cabinet that they keep hidden from the nuns and filling up her flute of wine, as well as a new one for her friend. She has a feeling this is going to be a long night.

Once both flutes of wine are topped, the angel returns to Sor Juana’s side and takes a seat in the extra chair they’d put next to her desk a few months ago to stop all that _dragging-furniture-from-one-side-of-the-room-to-the-other_ jazz, sipping on her drink as he watches her write the night away.

That’s how it’s been for quite some time now, when Aziraphale had gotten sent to New Spain to perform a couple miracles in the Almighty’s name. She’d then stumbled across Sor Juana, who in her endless thirst for knowledge had lead her to dressing up as a man in order to attend university.

She’d been right her side ever since, amazed by her drive and unbreakable will. Aziraphale had helped her not be killed by those who thought her worthy of punishment, tucking miracles tight between the folds of her clothes and the feathers of her quills and she’d shifted her physical appearance to that of a woman to be able to join Sor Juana at the convent.

And now here she is, talking in passive-aggressive prose and giggling over her flute of wine, spite and sass coating her every word as she downs glass after glass and helps her friend come up with more over-the-top verses each time.

In the morning, Sor Juana has a semi-good poem that, objectively, needs some fine honing, but is good enough to make them nod proudly at each other and close the journal, tuck it back into it’s drawer and lock the alcohol cabinet before walking back to their shared dormitory, shooting each other conspiratory glances when they think no one is looking and smiling into their scarves with glee.

Aziraphale knows that Sor Juana is going to do great things, given enough time.

**_a vagrant breeze will flicker out_ **

Warlock Dowling is the kindest baby Antichrist Nanny Ashtoreth has ever seen — not that she’s seen many but, well, you get the point.

He has a kind smile and even kinder eyes, dark locks of thread-thin hair curling on top of his big head. His parents don’t seem to care too much about any of it, but Nanny makes sure to burn every fine detail to her memory as she rocks him back and forth on her arms, and then bounces him on her knee when he gets too big to be rocked around, and then as she gives him piggyback rides when he gets too big to be bounced on her knee.

Finally, there comes a time where Warlock becomes too big for her to give piggyback rides to anymore, especially with the height of her heels, and so she takes to holding his hand and imprinting that sensation of warm skin into her memory.

Since the Dowlings couldn’t give less of a flying fuck about what Warlock’s Nanny did with him anyways, she takes him touring all around London. Nanny makes sure Warlock sees the London Bridge and the Big Ben, takes him to St. James and the Ritz (although he’s too young for that, but the waiters really don’t mind when a few demonic miracles and big tip are thrown in between).

Nanny Ashtoreth takes Warlock to the Wax Museum and the Thames, drives him down to Manchester and gets them both tickets to the Manchester Eye.

And, when a ten-year-old Warlock asks Nanny to take him to the Pride Parade that man in front of them at the self-checkout line was gushing about to his friend over the phone, she takes him there too.

The day of the parade, Nanny makes sure Warlock is accordingly dressed. She styles him up in washed-out blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt, slabbers a lot of sunscreen over his arms and face and finishes the look by putting a baby blue cap with an embroidered smiling heart on it.

After Nanny is satisfied with his look, she takes him by the hand and drives them downtown, parking a few streets away from the parade and giving him one final piggyback ride until they encounter the mass of people smiling, with heavy face paint, that wave different coloured flags all over the place.

There’s loud music blasting and every so often, someone will come up to them selling bracelets and pins and stickers. Nanny waves them all away at first, but after some convincing from Warlock, she agrees to buy a little something for them to take home.

Warlock chooses a multi-coloured lollipop in the shape of a heart and Nanny buys two enamel pins from a nearby vendor that she promptly clips on top of her denim jacket, the most casual Warlock’s ever seen her like with her green sundress and knee-high boots.

“What are those colours, Nanny?” Warlock asks, tilting his head and pointing at the weirdly-shaped pins.

“Oh, this?” Nanny pushes her sunglasses up her nose, gesturing to one pin with black, grey, white and green stripes on it. “This is the agender flag, which means that I do not identify myself as having a particular gender. And this,” she gestures to the other pin, a thick white stripe with a thinner purple one in the middle and a grey big one underneath, all of them covered partially by a black triangle. “Is the demisexual flag, that represents I do not feel attraction to people unless I have a strong emotional connection with them.”

 _Have you ever fallen in love before?_ Warlock wants to ask, wonder filling up his every vein, but then remembers the way Nanny looks at Brother Francis and thinks better of it.

“Can I have a pin of those flags, too?” He asks instead, eyeing the metal pins with wonder, he takes the wrapper out of his heart-shaped lollipop and hands Nanny the trash because littering is bad. “Can I?”

“Sure you can, kiddo,” Nanny ruffles his hair with her free hand and crushes the wrapper with the other, placing it inside. “You can have all the pins you want.”

“Yeah!” Warlock pumps one fist in the air, jumping with the movement. “I’m gonna have all the pins there is to have!”

It seems Nanny wants to say something more, from the way her mouth curves upwards, but she gets interrupted by a heavy voice.

“Hey, fags!” Someone yells, and Warlock whips his head around to find a middle-aged man holding up a sign with an angry frown. Upon noticing he is staring, the man scowls. “Yeah, you two! What a fucking terrible mother you are, teaching your kid to suck dick from such an early age! Don’t you homos fear God?”

Nanny Ashtoreth’s hand tightens around Warlock’s, and her smile freezes in place, seeming almost evil in how upwards it curls.

“No,” she whispers, low enough for the man not to have heard it over all the music and cheering. Even Warlock almost misses the small word in between all the ruckus, but it seems the man hears it perfectly fine as he gulps and his eyes get filled with fear. “But you will, soon.”

Without another word, Nanny continues walking down the street, dragging Warlock along the parade.

“Who was that?” Warlock asks once they’re far enough from the man, pulling the lolly out of his mouth. “Why was he so angry?”

“Those are very mean people that don’t seem to mind their own business,” Nanny Ashtoreth tuts, pulling Warlock aside and crouching down to his height, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “But don’t you let them get to you, okay, honey? People like him don’t matter, and once you rule over this world, you’ll stomp all the bigots to the ground under your sole, right?”

The only child of the Dowling family nods.

Nanny Ashtoreth’s face breaks into a smile.

“That’s my boy,” she whispers, and pulls him in for a hug.

With just as much force, Warlock hugs back.

**_be mine the faith whose living flame_ **

Crowley isn’t one to open up much, hates letting his emotions lay bare for anyone to mess with them, but he also is unable to not invite people to play with them, incapable of not giving out a tiny bit of his soul to every human that befriends him.

He’s been all over the world, in the last six thousand years, has met people all the way from Berlin to Beirut, shifted between Poles like one would shed clothes. And he’s met many great people, too.

Crowley has defended women and he has aided men and he has loved, loved, loved.

Some of them hurt more to let go than the others, like Jesus and his dear Freddie, who would take pieces of their conversations and weave them into songs so magical they got etched into your brain, with his delicate _“I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things”_ and his _“whatever this world can give to me it’s you, you’re all I see.”_

Some people Crowley doesn’t know that well but appreciates all the same, admires from afar as the man he talked once with at a bar suddenly pops up in the radio with _“I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door”_ and _“I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies”,_ quotes that Crowley distinctly remembers babbling to him in a drunken haze.

For every thing Crowley gives, the world gives back just as hard. And once the whole Armageddon’t thing is over and they’re free to part ways, the occult being finds himself looking at houses available in Tadfield with enough space for both a garden and a library and wonders if his angel is going to take the hint anytime soon or if he should just ask.

**_shall pierce the clouds and banish night,_ **

Aziraphale’s way of loving is subtler, but not for that any less strong.

He makes sure those he loves are being cared for, can provide for their every need. He falls in love with poets and writers and farmers and loners, he miracles them safe places even when Heaven is already looking down on him for too many frivolous miracles.

The people he befriends stay with him for life, tucked away in nooks and crannies of his bookshop. There are a lot of humans he’s soft for, many of which he considers equals, but at the top of the list will always stand out Oscar Wilde with his _“if one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all”_ and his _“it is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it”_ and the endless hours of his time that he devoted to sitting with Aziraphale and eating pastries.

Aziraphale finds them imprinted in the shadowed alleys and the carefully-crafted sculptures, in To Kill a Mockingbird and The Hunger Games.

And, in between the pages, he finds himself, too.

**_whose glow the hurricanes increase_ **

And then they both fall in love.

With themselves, with each other, with the world, with their present (and their past and their future).

They fall in love with the smart Descendant with curly brown hair and cunning eyes, with the soft-looking clean-cut Newt and the odd group of parental figures they came with, what with Shadwell’s odd remarks and Madame Tracy’s motherly love.

They adopt The Them to some sort, once they’ve moved into Tadfield. Dog spends entire days of his life lazing on the front porch while Brian instructs Crowley in the importance of carefully tending to your home-grown vegetables and Wensleydale dirties himself trying (and miserably failing) to pluck unripe carrots from the garden, Pepper watching him from the side-lines with unabashed disgust as Adam keeps willing the carrots to stay where they are and not move an inch or else, just for the sake of annoying his dumb best friend.

Once this humans are all gone for good Crowley and Aziraphale both know they’ll move back into London, or go looking for another place to spend the rest of eternity in. They will find another group of humans to love and will undoubtedly take them in, too, over and over again until it’s Heaven and Hell’s wrath against the Earth.

But then they’ll be prepared. They’ll have each other, and if that’s not enough then they’ll also have that little weird group of humans that hasn’t stopped chasing them ever since Eden came crashing down and free will came flooding into Earth in the shape of an apple.

And, honestly? That’s all that counts.

**_to match the gleams of heaven’s night._ **

**Author's Note:**

> And cut! I dearly hope you enjoyed this! 
> 
> I'll go ahead now and link my [Tumblr](http://valery-snowflakes.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/valeryhowlter) and [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/ValeryHowlter) accounts over here in case anyone that wants to follow me there!
> 
> Happy holidays, folks! Two thousand bi-teen was a good one, here's to hoping twenty twenty will be even better!


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